A Heart's Desert
by Faeriessence
Summary: The Exodus left behind a broken kingdom. What more can a pharaoh do than to pick up the pieces and put them back together? The expansion of an empire. Conquest. A Syrian woman left with no choice but to work for a driven king. (Rating might just change)
1. Chapter 1

**[REVISED: Dec 30, 2015 Still alive, but busy af]**

**Wrote this on a whim.**

**Well, a whim that's been around for a couple of months now. Ever since re-watching this magnificent film. O.O Oh my gosh. I can't express how I really really love the movie. I can't even get tired of the songs. Prince of Egypt has the most haunting sound track for an animated film ever. Like ever. I was still such a kid when I watched it. Now that I'm old enough, I can't help but fall in love even more. The highlight of the story, to me, is probably the strong bond between Moses and Rameses. (So my BroTP) Its quite rare to come across the sort of dynamic they have- in a cartoon that is. Gah. I loved them. And you can say that I have a small crush on Rameses. And this is where the fanfic starts. XD Rameses II in the movie, is really different from the Rameses II in world history. Personality-wise, similar, but historically, he didn't actually bring down an entire dynasty. Still, I love the Rameses in the film. So angsty. :v**

**Just before reading, I'd like to point out that this story contains some parts that are inspired by history. They are taken from Rameses II's biography but it doesn't totally follow, especially since an OC is involved... heh.**

Flash-forward

The desert was many things. But most of all, unbiased and callous.

When one chooses to wander into its realm, one must not take such a journey so lightly. This desolate place does not choose whom to save nor whom to punish. Prayers were for the weak. Death was not far behind. And one must be strong and move quick lest it catches up.

She ran. Slipped. Crawled her way up the dunes. It was impossible to grab on to anything. The sand burned at her touch.

She had lost the Egyptian wig, revealing a crop of reddish brown hair; the kohl on the rims of her green eyes were smeared, her tan skin was red from hours of exposure. Her clothing was soiled in sweat and grime. All were the least of her concerns.

Pain. Exhaustion. Fear. Fear of dying.

She had consumed the last ounce of water in her small sack hours ago. She had nothing left but her will to keep her going.

A leap of faith brought her into the wilderness. But it was after the first day did she realize that it may have been stupidity.

She looked back, the city was a small faint speck in the distance. It was tempting to go back. Yet, she had already gone so far. Most importantly, how could she?  
With a weary sigh, she turned to her front and forged on.

The woman soon found herself in a land of crags and jagged rocks. It did not help that she had lost her sandals in the sand two days prior.

"Ah!"

She yelled in pain as she unwittingly placed a heavy foot on broken stone. She stumbled and fell; her knees dove into more rocks, smaller but sharp. It felt like the end of her journey, yet she had to keep moving. It wasn't about her. She was free in the desert; someone else wasn't. She had to go find her.

Her eyes were suddenly very heavy. There was only so much the human body could take.

Tears welled up in her eyes. A tight coil formed in her throat.

Why did God put her through this? She prayed day and night for an answer, for a miracle.

She felt naive. She felt angry and hurt. She did not stifle the sob that came out. She cried for her life, for her fate, for what she failed to do.

But she knew that if she had given up now, it wouldn't change anything. The world would easily forget about her existence. How many had perished in these harsh places and how many of them were even remembered?

Getting up proved to be a feat. She mentally screamed at herself to move. She could not recall a time when she no longer had the strength to get up. Slowly, she pulled herself on to shaky legs and very carefully walked to a nearby rock formation that provided some protection from the searing heat. The weary woman collapsed on to the cool stone and rested her back against its smooth surface. She closed her eyes and felt her breathing come out in sharp puffs. A little respite might help.

Everything went black. For a long while, the woman believed that she had passed on. She had only been able to manage a small prayer for forgiveness.

Forgiveness for failing to carry on. For being so weak. For abandoning those that needed her...

Then the galloping of horses came.

Her neck ached as she turned her head to the side. She saw a man. No, _men_.

One got down from his horse. Behind him were four others. Her vision was hazy and she could not distinguish their faces, but she could see the white color of their clothing, the glimmering gold that adorned their chests and wound around their arms. Their dark skin-a sharp contrast to the light fabric they wore.

Egyptians.

Someone might as well kill her now.

Her eyes were half lidded and the figure that stood before her was darkened from the glare of their surroundings.

Movements began to slow as she watched him walk towards her. The last she heard was a familiar voice, slurred in her hearing, calling out her name.

Chapter 1

Why did the gods have to punish him so severely? And for what?

For glorifying them with magnificent monuments? For living up to his father's legacy? For working so hard to be the great Pharaoh he had been expected to become?

Was it arrogance? But what he was was all they ever taught him to be.

Rameses did not quite understand how he had brought the mightiest of dynasties down to its lowest point. He had lost so much. He didn't think he deserved it. The pharaoh dedicated his life to building his kingdom. In fact, his entire existence was molded for the job.

He was Egypt.

The exodus left him broken, a kingdom in ruin.

He came home with a mere handful of soldiers. So many lives were lost in the sea. So many _innocent_ lives lost that dreadful night. All thanks to _him_.

Egypt mourned for weeks on end. They wept from the pain and suffering, for what they held so dearly and lost. For two months, there was inactivity. Construction had ceased. No ceremonies were held.

In that time, the pharaoh spent each day waking up to dull mornings. He refused to let his servants dress him. He sometimes refused to eat as well. He would go to the grand hall and meet his subjects, discuss projects and plans with advisers and architects. But he would hold off any sort of work for the time being. And for many hours in a day, he would sit in the large empty throne room-thinking and_mourning_.

His beloved son.

The pride and joy that made his heavy responsibility so bearable in the few years of the boy's life, was no longer around to cheer him up, climb on his knee and hug him close. The pain of losing one's child could never compare to any other sort of loss. He almost could not understand the agony. Bouts of anger would cause him to flip tables, and punch stone walls till his knuckles bled. The child's memory would always be a painful reminder of what the king's pride had cost him.

His wise mother.

The only parent figure that had actually cared for him as a parent had passed on- her beauty and sophistication, two of the things he missed dearly. He wished she was here now, to bring him wisdom that would give him courage.

His brother.

Gods. His _blasted _brother.

He could not fathom why he missed the man at all. Even after the misery his reappearance brought, he still loved him. Rameses could not bring himself to hate him so, no matter how hard he tried. Anger and resentment would be quickly replaced with sorrow and loss.

His wonderful brother, whom he had spent his entire adolescence with. The man who made it his sole purpose once to make the pharaoh laugh, to bring light to the darkness he had found himself living in for most of his life, was now so far away- beyond the deep waters of the Red Sea.

Tears would well up in his eyes when Moses came to mind. His daily musings had always ended with this memory, for he had found most of his life to revolve around their kinship.

He was everything he could ever ask for in the man- a brother, a playmate, a best friend, an adviser (albeit, not a very good one), his confidante.

In a manner of speaking, it was then when Moses walked out of the gates of Egypt a mere decade ago, did he begin to lose everything.

His brother, became a man he hardly recognized; so suddenly he had walked into his halls, asking for something that was too much to give. Was that man aware at the time how great the cost was for such a task? That he was literally asking him to place Egypt aside? Rameses had been adamant on keeping the Hebrews; he was stubborn and later on, it had proved to be rather idiotic that he had not granted his brother's difficult request sooner. Yet, in the back of his mind, sometime in Moses' return, he had feared that giving him what he wanted, would mean losing his brother once more. The man did agree that his only reason for returning to Egypt was to set the slaves free. _His people_.

That had torn a hole through the king's heart.

The heavy moaning of the huge doors steered him away from his musings.

Imhotep. An architect and a friend.

Rameses watched him solemnly, his posture- austere yet dignified.

"My king."

The Pharaoh merely raised his brows in acknowledgment. Otherwise, he looked somewhat lazy and disinterested.

Imhotep was at the time, the person he was closest to. He was the pharaoh's chief architect even before the beginning of his reign- _after Moses had left_. The two had once worked closely. It made sense that the architect was the only one who had ever had the courage to come up to him in these dark times.

"We have to start rebuilding."

The pharaoh released a tired sigh and looked away, staring into the horizon.

"Imhotep, I wish not to speak of this at the moment. Leave me be."

"It has been two months, your highness. There is plenty of work that needs to be done."

The middle aged man looked at him imploringly. Rameses continued to stare into space. The architect took a few steps forward, putting one foot on the first tread of the throne's dais.

"Rameses."

The sound of his name being firmly uttered brought his attention. No one in so long had ever addressed him so informally. He would have replied indignantly had he not been so sullen.

"You must return to the real world. You cannot keep yourself locked in the palace forever. An entire kingdom is depending on you." The chief architect said sternly, nearly yelling in the end. He waited for any form of reply from the passive king. He soon got his answer.

Rameses' placid face morphed into a bitter smile. Without looking at the other man, he laughed.

"Yes, it always had. The world just simply cannot move on without me." He drawled.

"_You_ are the pharaoh. The kingdom does not do _anything_ without you."

Rameses remained quiet as though contemplating. He spoke again. But more so to himself.

"The gods have punished me. Father would hang his head in shame, seeing what has become of his kingdom... I _am_ a weak link." His last words came in a harsh whisper. Imhotep watched him, his concerned expression unnoticeably shifting to sympathy as he moved closer and placed a warm hand on the pharaoh's surprisingly cold shoulder.

Rameses looked up with a pained look. For the first time, he saw the older man in a different light- not as a friend, but someone akin to a father. A father he had always hoped to be understanding. It gave him some measure of comfort.

"Oh Rameses..." The old man replied fondly. "You are still capable of _so_ much... Not too long ago, I knew a young man with a _grand_ vision. He dreamt of a prosperous kingdom that stretched beyond the horizon. He dreamt of reaching the stars, to be one of the gods..." Imhotep spoke with conviction- conviction only seen through those who had lived through a golden era. He gestured to the skies, before slowly speaking.

"He was dauntless. Because nothing _had_ stood in his way."

Rameses had to hold back the tears that were starting to form.

"Even the greatest of kings had fallen down at times..."The old architect said lowly.

"But what made them the greatest was their ability to stand back up in the midst of great adversity."

The pharaoh could only stare back at his friend, unable to voice out the mix of emotions that ran through him. Apprehension swam in his dark eyes.

"It is not too late. Get back on your feet. We are your humble servants, my king. You need only _call_." Imhotep smiled at him warmly, giving him a gentle pat.

That perhaps, was all that was needed to be said. No one really knew what it was like to be in his place. The immense weight on his shoulders. Rarely had anyone ever tried to give him a little bit of sympathy. The ones that did were long gone.

The sense of companionship had finally given the pharaoh courage. Hesitantly, he placed a cold nervous hand on top of the other that was resting on his shoulder.  
With a heavy sigh, he nodded.

**Pep talk.**

**On a side note, the character Imhotep is the first known architect in ancient Egypt. (Or so I've been taught in History of Architecture class) I don't think he belongs to Rameses II's dynasty. The name kind of stuck when I wrote this fic.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Whoa. Did not think I'd get any feedback as quick. Though I hoped I would. Thank you for taking the time to write down your thoughts on the first chapter. I read them and they actually made me more serious about writing this. lol. In all honesty, I'm not an expert on Egyptian history. o-o I hope none of you would over think the story line because it will be not be as historically accurate. But yeah, I did read a lot about Rameses II because of this and among other things, the concept of slavery in Ancient Egypt. Huh. They speculate it wasn't so bad. ? :/**

Chapter 2

In the midst of mountainous terrain and vast lands, laid a grand city of stone, bleached under the Syrian sun. Damascus. The crossroads of worlds.

The early mornings were often cold, for such an arid place. But they were undeniably fresh and healing to the senses.

In the comfort of her small brick home, Zenona peered through its second story window and watched the town go about with their morning routines- men tending to the livestock, working in the fields, women cooking and weaving. Some were using the morning for prayer, and others would indulge themselves in friendly conversations and small activities.

For the most part of her life, she had known the sunrises to be quiet and peaceful. The Syrian could only do so much as smile- for she was taught and she believed, that each day was a blessing. But there had always been a sense of underlying dread that could not be helped. She and perhaps everyone else knew better than to expect eternal happiness and prosperity, especially not in a land coveted by many. Yet, all anyone could do was hope- that the days of his or her lifetime, including his or her descendants', would be free from strife.

Slowly and gently, a small hand wound its delicate fingers around hers. The woman looked down at a sleepy smile. In turn she smiled softly and knelt down to meet the child eye to eye.

Sara was the name of the little girl. At the tender age of five, she was most beautiful. She had dark reddish hair like her mother, and her exact same eyes of pale green with flecks of gold and blue. Her skin was a rich light brown with freckles dusting her cheeks. The girl's nose was but a button one, though it was certain that she would have a long slender nose quite like her father's, different from her mother's slightly curved one.

The woman held her closely. She felt a faint shiver run down the little person. Instinctively, she wrapped her loose red shawl lined with gold around her and the child and lifted her up to watch the scenery together.

A man entered the room and saw the pair by the window. He smiled as he approached the woman who held the child, now asleep in her arms. A gentle and quiet voice from behind them spoke.

"Good morning, love." Zenona inclined her head to the person and smiled in return.

Her husband, as old as she was-thirty-three-was as humble as he appeared to be- an honest man. He had dark tanned skin, hazel eyes, with shoulder length brown hair and a short beard, dressed in a simple dull red tunic. He rested his forehead against his wife's-his skin meeting her golden band of beaded fringes. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, as did she.

"Ahmar ." She whispered.

The man smirked lightheartedly at the sound of his name- spoken the only way a lover and a wife could.

Sara, upon noticing his presence steered in her mother's arms and opened her eyes groggily."Baba." The little girl said sleepily. The two parents smiled down at their little bundle. Zenona propped the child into a better position in her arms, holding her closer. Her smile faded; her husband saw it immediately.

"Life has treated us well..." She trailed off.

Ahmar watched her solemn gaze. Her words contradicted the emotion he sensed, the anxiety she felt.

"Ahmar...I've heard...talks, around town. _Talks of war_." Zenona turned to him fully, with eyes filled with concern and dread. As a husband, it was his responsibility to keep his family safe and secure their happiness. From his wife's gaze, his traveled down to his sleeping child, then back to her. Ahmar smiled softly, hoping it would ease her tension.

"I'm sure it's nothing. There will always be talks of conflict. And believe me, plenty of fanatics who have nothing better to do than fill the hearts of people with worry and fear."

Zenona nodded in agreement. It was no lie for the sense of security he knew she needed. But even then, she smiled just for show when her husband wasn't convinced. A course, yet gentle hand made its way to her left cheek.

"Don't let those worry lines mar your beautiful face, Zenona." He chuckled under his breath. The woman couldn't help but look at him wryly.

"I will be in the field, if you need me." He kissed her good bye and made his way down the stairs.

His wife watched the man take his leave for the fields. Suddenly, as though by way of telling, a gust of wind rushed from the side and blew her thick wavy locks to her face, prompting her to close the curtains and get to work. Like most of the wives in the city, she stayed at home to lead a domestic life.

In the early part of the morning, she cooked and cleaned. Sara helped her all throughout, running to and fro to do small errands for her- nothing the five year old couldn't handle. A little later before high noon, Zenona used the time to weave; rugs and wall hangings decorated with rich Assyrian patterns of pale blue, red and yellow would sit neatly folded on her porch, waiting for a buyer as she sat with them weaving. It was a relaxing hobby as well as a small decent business she made for herself and her family. It certainly made the idle parts of the day more enjoyable.

The clinking of golden bangles signaled the approach of a close friend.

There was an old woman that often went to her home to look at her creations. She was old by appearance- dark skin wrinkled with age, deep set eyes of chestnut rimmed with kohl and graying raven hair-yet she carried with her the spirit of her youth. She was a Hittite, as were some of the people in the city. The woman was not exactly what was called a regular customer of Zenona's, but she was an admirer of the arts- if her intricately woven shawl and tunic and layers of delicate metal jewelry were anything to go by. She wore a head dress that was similar to the younger woman's and it had a matching set of heavy beaded earrings that swayed as she walked.

"Good morning, Esta." Zenona grinned cheerfully.

"Good morning child," the lady replied a little more subtly.

"Do you see anything you like?" The woman said, gesturing to her folded fabrics with an open arm.

"My dear, if I were the Queen Puduhepa, I would buy all of them!" Zenona chuckled as the elder woman exclaimed with a raspy aged lilt.

"Well, can I show you some of the designs I made?" Esta nodded at her eager suggestion. Zenona's eyes were filled with laughter as she pulled out a small wall hanging and handed it to the older woman. The fabric had intricate border designs of woven geometric shapes that resembled gemstones. In the center was the elegant symbol of an Assyrian Sacred tree- a flower like emblem with delicate tendrils around its head.

"By the gods. This is magnificent!" The woman beamed. Zenona smiled wider. "This is worthy of a king! The best I have seen in your collection- not that I haven't seen anything else that is amazing here." The woman said as she neatly folded the rug and returned it to the weaver.

"Ha ha ha! So why not buy it?" Zenona jokingly replied (though it was no joke).

"Alas I cannot. My poor husband has indulged me long enough..."The elder lady shook her head fondly.

"How is Tarhuk?"

"Old, still grumpy. A fat mess. But he's my old, grumpy, fat mess." The younger woman chuckled to this.

"You know, I thought he liked my rugs..." She trailed off as she feigned thoughtfulness.

"Don't push it Zenona." Esta playfully scolded.

"Can't hurt to try." The other woman shrugged. The elder lady looked left and right.

"Now,where is that little spitfire of yours?" Esta said as she placed her hands on her hips.

"Sara! Come over here!" The mother called out.

The slapping of bare feet on stone soon followed and the little girl came rushing out of the house. "Esta!" The little girl exclaimed, arms wide open to encircle the woman's legs.

"Oooh... my little darling Sara! You grow more beautiful each day!" Esta enveloped the child in a warm motherly hug and showered her with kisses. She easily picked up the small girl who hugged her neck as she held her.

"Sara. Wear your sandals when you're out of the house. You'll get your feet dirty." Zenona reproved, standing up as she did so.

"Don't listen to your mother, jump in the mud and go play in rain." Esta whispered mischievously. The pair giggled.

_"Yes Sara, then you take the mud and paint it all over Esta's clean laundry!" _Zenona called out, wiping away the other's smugness.

Still hugging one another, Sara and Esta watched the mother enter the house and come out with a small pair of footwear. Zenona proceeded to wipe the soles of her child's feet and attach each sandal.

"There. Don't forget, little lady. Getting dirty might not be a very bad thing, but it can get you sick."

"I'm sorry mama." Zenona lovingly placed a kiss atop her forehead.

Not too far away from them, a group of women had huddled closely together, sparking the curiosity of both Zenona and Esta.

"I wonder what they are all worked up about now." Esta muttered. "I'll go ask." She suggested as she returned the child to her mother.

Zenona eyed the crowd with a small frown. The rumors. _This again?_ She exhaled sharply and continued on with her weaving as Sara sat down with her on the stone steps of their porch. She weaved faster- skillful hands maneuvering the loom with ease. It had taken her a few inches of weaving for Esta to return, though she had been too immersed to notice the older woman's presence.

"A military campaign from Egypt." Zenona's head bolted up.

"What is that?" Sara titled her head to the side in a purely innocent fashion.

"Nothing, Sara. This is big people stuff," her mother quickly interjected.

"Well...The last time Egypt had tried to capture Syria, it was during the pharaoh Seti's reign. Quite a while back... " Esta mused-her voice,even raspier.

"Are you fairly certain that this information is true?" Zenona asked in a tired, if not, exasperated tone.

"One of the women, Tir, related the news- the Egyptian army is on its way to Amurru's borders."

Amurru, a province of Syria, was a vassal state under the Hittite Empire. And Damascus was well inside its dominion.

"I'm asking if it's _true_." Zenona spoke again, sounding a little more insistent and frustrated this time.

"I wish I can indulge you and say it isn't, my dear, but I honestly do not know. I too, would _not_ like to think of it." The lady retorted, a little slighted by her impertinence.

"I'm sorry. I-"Zenona shook her head in disbelief. It weighed heavy in her heart, just thinking of it. No one could belittle the concept of war. No one would ever want it more than their kings. Two powerful empires would once again battle for ownership.

That afternoon, the news was officially proclaimed all over Damascus. There was nothing short of a commotion all over town yet people had been far more civilized than to let chaos ensue. Most especially because they had nowhere else to go.

That evening left the Syrian woman plenty to think about. In her usual spot by the window, she had a good look of the city in golden light. Her frown deepened.

_'A military campaign from Egypt.'_

The news had been reeling in her head over and over. Despite how conflict had always been inevitable, Zenona still felt a wave of surprise at the prospect. It was not too long ago, four years actually, when Egypt met its tragic fate- economic decline, famine, disease, disaster and _death_.

It should have been impossible to recover from such a catastrophe over the span of one king's reign, let alone in a few years' time. That much she knew.

Then perhaps, there was much more to the empire than she had thought. And, much more to the empire's ruler.

The Egyptian pharaoh was a celebrated figure- a 'god king', many would call. His name, they revered and spread across the lands. Many kingdoms knew about his accomplishments. And they were aware of the proclaimed god-king's nature.

Resolute, stubborn and _egotistic_.

The tragedy of his kingdom- the _knowledge_ that one simple 'slave' had caused it- would have made him an embarrassment to the dynasties.

Yet he returns to the plane, with an army, waging war against a powerful enemy.

How he managed to rebuild in such little time, she might never know. It was _daunting_. To her, and to the people living in Syria.

In the depths of the night, she was too bothered to sleep. Zenona lied awake, staring at the thatch ceiling. Her child laid next to her and on the other side of the bed, her husband laid with them. She looked to the side and nearly jumped when she saw that her husband had been wide awake and staring at her intently- for quite some time now, it appeared.

"What's on your mind?" Ahmar whispered. She felt hesitant to tell him directly, yet her troubles should have been obvious by now.

"Do you think we will be alright?" She spoke quietly. She knew, and he knew what this was about.

"Is this about Egypt?" Zenona didn't speak, but instead pursed her lips.

"It will be fine... I don't think we have to worry about that. Remember what had happened to them. How could they possibly be able to succeed in their campaign after what the Hebrews left them with?" Zenona's gaze drifted away from his as she thought it over.

"Besides, the Hittites are just as powerful, if not, even more. They are not easy to defeat; they will fight for this land. And their people." He shrugged with a reassuring smile.

Zenona nodded. He was right. Perhaps, she was worrying too much. Maybe, she had been overestimating the pharaoh. But the woman knew better.

What was worse than to overestimate, was to _underestimate_ prowess and power.

Ahmar saw that the apprehension in her eyes had not wavered even after his reassurance. Exhaling softly, he kissed her lips and held his family closer. Their daughter shifted between them as he did so.

"Pray for the best." He looked into her eyes earnestly.

Zenona nodded again, unable to voice out how she felt. She was not ignorant; she did not put her faith in people so blindly and in single-minded, power-hungry kings, no less. Ahmar was not one to do so either. But what can a husband do to comfort his wife than to be brave for both of them?

Yes, Egypt's setbacks made it weaker. But in comparison to what?

Only God knows how the Hebrews did it. They said it was a miracle. Hopefully it wouldn't take as much this time around.

That night, the small family held each other a little closer as they slept, uncertain of the days ahead.

** Sadly, college times don't permit extensive research. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Dang. Late update. Unlike the second one. Busy busy :T**

**I hope you enjoy this chapter! A Rameses filled one. Is it me, or is it only fun to write when**_**he's**_**around? :P The range of emotions you get to play with...**

Chapter 3

The piercing sound of metal against metal. The battle cries of men. A tight fist colliding with his face. The coppery taste of blood.

And yet, the pharaoh couldn't help but chuckle under his breath. The _rush_ of adrenaline coursed through him, heady on his senses. He could die at any time in the heat of the battle, but that did not seem to matter nor did he find it likely. Worries of self-preservation were thrown to the wind and all that went through his mind was the small but sure victory he so well deserved.

In so long... Rameses had never felt so alive.

He roared in the midst of lowly warriors, like one himself, yet he did not seem so. Amongst mortal men, he stood out in his armor of gold and lapis, like a glorified deity. A _god-king. _The title was fitting; he had already killed more than a dozen soldiers. He had even lost count.

Then came another. The Hittite charged at him with whatever ounce of bravery and strength the man could carry- a sword at hand. His blade clashed with his own. The fellow had managed to knock him off balance, which happened so rarely that day.

Rameses retaliated with a force twice as ruthless.

The young soldier remained persistent- swordsmanship suggesting that he was of high ranking. But the man's strength was waning. He could barely manage to keep them on par as their weapons clashed with one another at precise moments, creating sparks. With a stroke of luck, the Hittite maneuvered his sword to fling his away. Rameses stared in awe. Silently, he commended the younger warrior. Then the man charged at him. The king dodged the swings of the blade, moving himself closer in an attempt to grab it, just before the soldier quickly jabbed the hilt at his chin.

The pharaoh, albeit dazed, smirked at the assault. In his blood lust, pain was a welcomed sensation. He wiped off the liquid that trickled down from his mouth and ducked fast from his opponent's next strike. This provided him with an opening- allowing him to twist the weaker man's sword wielding arm and bashed his stomach with his own fist.

The battle took place in the desert no less- ground, rock dry on flat lifeless terrain. Dust floated in the air. A deadly dance with men, cloaking them in a mixture of grime and sweat.

The fight was a losing one- for the Hittite enemy that was. It was evident from the beginning and more so as it seemed to near the end. The pharaoh's army outnumbered them by a mere dozen. But it was his untimely arrival that proved to be his greatest advantage. And the Hittite army posted by the border were unprepared, fighting for their own lives.

It was not the sort of battle that he should find so necessary to be physically involved in. In fact, it was on a relatively small scale compared to what he was expecting from the entire Syrian campaign. His commanders and soldiers were mildly surprised when he decided to join them in the field. But of course, no one denied the god-king his right. What the pharaoh did not tell them though, was that he had been waiting for an opportunity to vent out. All the rage and sorrow he had to restrain for years- unleashed upon lowly savages who were of no concern to him. His actions and their reasons were not noble- nothing was ever a good excuse to kill. He knew better; he was after all, Tuya's son. But the man could not deny how good it felt.

The day had gone much quicker than anyone could imagine- like sand slipping out of one's hand. By dusk, just as the imperial sun had barely touched the vast dunes and the dirt had finally settled, the Egyptian army won.

The pharaoh got away with a few bruises to the cheek and eye, a cut lip, along with shallow cuts and scrapes on his sides and legs. There was no doubt he would live. But still, he did not get away that easily. His left side felt incredibly sore from falling on an edged rock in the battlefield. He had managed to roughly surpass some of his best warriors despite a four year training (coupled with the knowledge of fencing he and Moses had acquired in their youth). To everyone's surprise, the king had in him, a hidden raw talent. One could very well say he was born to fight after all. But that did not make him completely invincible.

The desert heat had now simmered down to a cold night- its cool wind kissing the dirtied skins of the weary men. They set camp just outside a small dirt town on the border. There were about two dozen prisoners held captive, shackled and lined up in the center of the Egyptian camp- soon-to-be assets of the kingdom, no doubt. The pharaoh took it upon himself to oversee the operations. He watched his men work with hidden triumph- a gleam in his eyes did show. Rameses finally allowed himself to relax. He exhaled softly, taking off the royal headpiece that had grown so heavy on him, just as much as the day had. Holding the helmet in his right, he made his way to the general's tent where his officers were planning the next line of offense. He forced a dignified walk, not allowing physical weakness to ruin his bearing. He wanted to feel pleased with his accomplishment. His first real triumph, though small, was very much welcomed.

And yet, he still felt a familiar wave of vulnerability in these pleasant thoughts. He found himself impulsively shoving away the canvas of the tent. But that was all anyone would get from him; had his mood been soiled, no one could tell. By devotion, his commanders swiftly turned to greet him.

Rameses straightened his stance-their loyalty to him, another reason to appear strong and unwavering. The pharaoh knew he was not gifted with strategy. That, he learned, when he made the fatal mistake of charging into the Red Sea with half his battalion. He would not have gone alone in this campaign, much less make decisions on his own. Typically, along with the pharaoh, his sons would have been the commanders of his army. Since he had_none_, Rameses appointed some of his trusted officials. One of them was Imhotep. He was _old_ but far from handicapped and had once assisted Seti in his own campaigns. Most of all, Rameses highly valued his judgement.

The pharaoh listened intently as his officers explained their campaign's current position. So far, they were progressing. _A few causalities, a new strategy, and the sure capture of the Amurru province._Rameses smoothed his palm over the map on the wooden table, looking at the areas they crossed with eyebrows creased.

"Tomorrow, we ride for Damascus." Imhotep concluded.

"Very well. When we get there, as much as possible, we will not try to incite war against their king. We need them to willingly pledge their loyalty to Egypt." The pharaoh stated factually.

"Yes my king."

"But what if they refuse?" Another voice blurted out from behind him. Paser, his grand vizier. Rameses regarded his other officer seriously, noting the sense of doubt in his tone. His frown deepened as he weighed the options.

"Then we have no choice but to take the city by force. But take note, we do not harm the civilians. There's enough bloodshed as it is."

The ruffling sound of heavy cloth turned their attention to the entrance. A low-ranking soldier, still covered in grime stood there, halfway inside the tent, knowing well enough not to fully enter without permission.

"Your Majesty, the Great Royal Wife wishes to see you." Rameses quirked a brow at the odd request.

"Does she expect me to return to Egypt this instant?" He replied sternly. The soldier looked even meeker than one could possibly be, glancing down when his superior eyed him critically. The young man regretted not being quite specific beforehand.

"Actually, your majesty, she has come to see you."

The imperious expression on pharaoh deflated.

_Gods._

He rushed out of the tent, discomposed and disregarding the pain of his injuries and the tiny snickers and smirks that came from his officers. Outside, the king searched his camp with a semblance of nervousness in his features. To his far left he spotted a small group of Royal horses adorned in fine blue ribbons and shining gold, with them was the royal guard. By the looks of the unscathed clothing and dust free skin, that they had just arrived. But no royal wife in sight...

"I see that my husband still lives..."

_Of course._

The silky tone of her voice caught his attention.

The pharaoh swiftly pivoted around and met the vision of a tall slender figure of unmistakable Egyptian royalty. With long raven hair swaying in the wind and skin so rich- kissed by the sun god Ra himself. A smirk played on the woman's thick lips, her sultry cat eyes-speaking a thousand things.

This was Isetnofret.

"... Shame." She sneered.

Rameses sighed tiredly and rolled his eyes. "Set, what are you doing here?" He huffed.

"What? You're not glad to see me? I'm hurt." The queen drawled out, placing a hand on her chest mockingly.

"I'm serious. It is dangerous to cross the border. Why did you not send a messenger instead?"

"Hah! Yeah, alright. And spend my time lazing around in the palace while you're off having a hell of a ride." She grimaced, folding her arms together.

"Believe me, crossing the desert was the most exciting thing I've done in _years_."

Rameses' exasperated gaze had not faltered despite the young queen's nonchalance. It was not often when people showed him impertinence, though it was never too unpleasant coming from her. But he had not the time for this.

Isetnofret looked back at him with a wry smile. How serious this man was. It was often too good not to poke fun at his majesty. Her mouth formed a silent 'oh' when a small idea dawned on her.

Rameses's critical stare morphed into that of bewilderment when she mirrored his own frown and exaggerated it childishly. He was slow to comprehend the intention, but when he did, he returned the favor by smirking at the woman's rather juvenile behavior.

"There you go. You should smile some more- you're not getting any younger." Isetnofret reproved, before punching him lightly on the shoulder. Rameses scoffed, rolling his eyes once more. He took her by surprise when he suddenly inched towards her with a beguiling smile that had the queen subconsciously holding her breath.

"So what news does my queen-turned-Royal messenger bring?" He crooned. The Royal wife chuckled lightly at his smooth lilt, forcing herself back to her usual composure. She regarded him wryly, so wanting to scrape that arrogant look off his face. But she remembered why she had come to him in the first place and her expression quickly turned solemn. Rameses immediately understood and his smile followed suit.

"Political troubles in Lower Egypt. The people won't have it settled until they hear from you personally."

"Just send them the royal emissary." Rameses waved off. Isetnofret deadpanned at the request.

"Did you not hear what I said? And had it not occurred to you that I just came all the way up here to come get you?"

"Did you not say you were bored? And besides, I just thought you missed me."

Isetnofret rolled her eyes at his smug retort.

"I wouldn't have come here had it not been necessary. With you gone, I get to do what I want." Rameses grunted indignantly at her response. His queen paid no heed.

"Anyway... You have to come home." He had opened his mouth to speak when she stopped him right there. "Look, I know. Men and your 'raging' tendencies. Hit! Kick! Kill! I get it. But right now, the pharaoh has to look after his people..." Isetnofret said pointedly. "And possibly socialize. Ra knows you need more friends." She quipped.

Rameses exhaled sharply. His mind and body had been so invested in this Syrian campaign that all else felt less significant. But what kind of king would neglect his kingdom, and his people no less? Still, would it kill his subjects to be a little more open-minded? He closed his eyes and breathed out his frustrations. _The weight of his crown was indeed a heavy weight to bear_.

"Fine."

Isetnofret stared at him, dumbly it seemed before blinking at him and letting out a snort. Puzzled, Rameses quirked a brow.

"Pfft! Are you pouting? You look like a little kid." She snickered. He did not realized he resorted to such childish habits.

"Hm. You must be rubbing off on me." The queen laughed even more, giving the pharaoh a playful shove at his shoulder.

"We leave tomorrow morning. I will be staying in camp for the night."

" Ah, good. I could use some company."

"What? Ew. _No_. I brought my own tent, thank you very much." Isetnofret snootily replied, as she held up her chin and crossed her arms to snub him. The pharaoh sighed tiredly.

"After two years of marriage, you still treat me as though we haven't slept in the same bed."

"Nothing personal Rameses, but a lady would really like her own space. Especially when she's in a camp with four hundred other men." She pointed out, giving more emphasis when she gestured the entire lot. The pharaoh chuckled softly as he shook his head.

"Do I repulse you?" He asked, staring at her intently with a small smirk.

The queen paused to think it over. She felt herself blush, despite her irritation. But it wasn't the sort of question that was expecting an opinion regarding appearances nor physical attraction. No, it felt almost earnest, even if he had spoken arrogantly. The woman could not be certain.

"... No. But you're not romancing me either. I'll see you tomorrow, my 'dear'."

"Likewise."

Rameses watched the woman saunter away, smirking when he noticed the casual sway of her hips. The gods were surprisingly forgiving- bestowing upon him some small pleasures. He left with that thought, returning to his generals to listen to their final strategies, before politely excusing himself for the day's end.

That night, in the solitude of his tent, lying on his warm bed, he twisted and turned. For it was not its soft comfort he dreamed of. But the thick, viscous Nile turned to blood.

_He felt his body paralyzed on its surface, under a blazing red sky. Time felt like an eternity as he drifted in this endless river._It drove him mad. _Hundreds of tiny little fingers rose from the depths of the river, poking his back side. Their ghostly touch, so haunting and yet so gentle- full of longing; he didn't understand why or how he understood that at all. Anguish came in each caress as they bid him farewell as he was departing for a shapeless afterlife. Whispers of a dead language echoed all around- hundreds of soft voices, amplified by heightened senses, whispering all at once, but not unison. Was this a glimpse of hell? Or was he already there? The lines between fantasy and reality were heavily distorted._

_All of a sudden, Moses appeared, standing by the riverbed with a sorrowful expression matching his own. His calls for help were but a faint distant cry that sounded so far away, even from his own body. Like a voice calling out from a deep well. Further along the river, he drifted. The realm he was in, no longer held any resemblance to the world he knew. His brother and his sad eyes slowly faded away into a black void._

_Terror pierced through his heart when a powerful forced pulled him down into the river. Submerged in blood, he held his breath. But still, he was breathing. His surroundings were of the consistency of water, a quality like wine. The dark red void that swallowed him stretched endlessly into an abyss. Fear prickled so much on his skin, it burned. It stung and itched so sickly like the desert heat._

_A pair of arms wound around his chest._

_He dreaded the thing that had decided to latch on to him. So certain that this was the creature that had dragged him down into the depths of the river, the man dared not move. Slowly, it made its way around, using him like an anchor to keep itself from floating away. An ugly impish monster was what he thought he would meet. But instead, he came face to face with own son._

_There was_no true horror_to him than seeing the pain and fear in his own flesh and blood.__  
__Rameses yelped, blood filling his throat. He couldn't care less. All that meant was reaching for his little boy and saving his life. An outstretched arm moved to grab the smaller, much more fragile one-_

Then he woke up. He gasped out of his hellish dream, warm and clammy in sweat. His breathing was ragged- like a fish out of water. His eyes, now wide awake, were rimmed in red and painful lump swelled in his throat. He did not stop the tears as they streamed down his face, nor did he stop the broken sobs that came out of his throat, hushed so no one would hear.

Years had passed and yet it was never easier to forget. Memories, still so vivid-so real that they ensnared him in his sleep and _plagued_ him with nightmares. And each time he awoke, he had never felt more alone.

**Angst. Too fun to write. Man, the trauma this guy must have went through after the movie.**

**Yeeeep. There's definitely some historical stuff here. But I had to limit the details coz I just cant keep up with the times. X( Still, I hope it sounds less cliche than it probably is.**


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